The executive office was a solitary beacon of light in the darkened tower. Shu Yao was bent over his desk, his consciousness dominated by a single, terrifying thought: the trap.
It wasn't Bai Qi's cruel punishment that drove him, nor the impossible volume of work. It was the phantom threat of Shen Haoxuan and Ming Su closing their net.
What if he didn't act in time? They would hurt Bai Qi.
He had to finish the work. He had to be free to warn George—the only one who might listen. His fragile body was fueled purely by frantic urgency.
Meanwhile, in a private dining room draped in hushed elegance, Bai Qi was dining with the deception.
Ming Su chatted sweetly, perfectly mirroring Qing Yue's demeanor. Bai Qi ate, attempting to anchor himself in the banal necessity of the meal, trying to silence the acidic thoughts of shu Yao.
He stopped, fork mid-air. He watched Ming Su eat.
The way she chewed, the slight, delicate squeal of delight when she tasted something she loved—it was identical. His Qing Yue. His cruel heart was playing tricks, and he refused to let the comforting illusion slip away. He leaned into the falsehood.
"Mr. Bai," Ming Su began, her voice soft and intimate. "We just met twice, and suddenly we are good friends."
"Yes," Bai Qi managed, his voice hesitant.
"Well, Mr. Bai, have anyone ever.
complimented you on how handsome you are?"
Bai Qi flinched, turning his head away. The directness was too awkward, too personal.
Ming Su chuckled, a delicate, musical sound. "You are very shy in person."
Bai Qi felt the blush creep up his neck. It was true; he felt like he was in those days again again, talking to Qing Yue. He chased the feeling, running away from the stark reality of the boardroom and the desperate boy he'd left behind.
"Why did you suddenly stop, Mr. Bai?"
"You can call me by my name," Bai Qi choked out, the words of such tender intimacy feeling foreign and stiff on his tongue.
Ming Su's eyes widened theatrically. "My, my, Mr. Bai! Are you really like this when you are not in business?"
He hesitated, feeling an absurd surge of shy validation. Ming Su laughed again, pleased by his genuine awkwardness.
"It's okay. If you really want, I'll call you Bai Qi."
The way she spoke his name—soft, familiar, echoing a ghost—made Bai Qi lower his gaze, utterly disarmed.
Meanwhile, Shu Yao dragged his pen across the paper, his vision blurring. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy.
The worst part: his phone battery indicator was red. He couldn't risk a call until the work was done. There would be no taxi. He was trapped.
But he ignored the facts of his own life. Work. Finish. Save Bai Qi. That was the only mantra.
The dinner was finally over.
Ming Su stood beside her sleek car.
Her assistant was already holding the door. Bai Qi walked toward his own waiting sedan.
"Bai Qi."
He turned at the sound of his name—soft and familiar.
Ming Su leaned in suddenly, her movement decisive. She embraced him. Her slender arms wrapped around his waist.
Bai Qi froze. He felt the shock of the contact, the overwhelming sensory memory of Qing Yue's scent, Qing Yue's warmth.
He couldn't meet Ming Su's eyes. He felt a wave of dizzying shyness.
He slowly, gently, broke the embrace.
Ming Su, surprised by his lack of resistance, smiled internally. He didn't push me away.
"Bai Qi," she whispered, leaning back slightly, her gaze locking onto his. "We are friends now." So we can do this every time we meet.
He felt the blush rise again, but he forced himself to stay composed. She retreated, waving a soft, elegant hand.
"See you tomorrow, then."
"Bye, Ming Su,"
he replied instinctively, the name slipping out with embarrassing ease.
He got into his car, immediately pressing a hand over his mouth, shocked by his own softness. He had called her by her name.
Armin was already home. He was having brief, detached phone conversation with his mother.
"Take care of yourself, okay, darling," his mother's sweet voice faded. "And tell Bai Qi not to stay outside for too long."
"Okay, Mother," Armin muttered, hanging up.
He spotted George walking into the grand foyer, shrugging off his long, expensive coat.
"Uncle," Armin called out, crossing his arms.
George stopped, his green eyes sharp and cold, as if he suspected Armin of murder.
"What is it, Armin?"
"Nothing," Armin quickly replied, sensing the toxic mood.
George gave a terse twitch of his mouth and turned toward the grand staircase. "If you have nothing to talk about, I'm going."
Armin sighed. He was annoyed that Bai Qi had taken Ming Su to dinner—the reckless, foolish display of misplaced affection.
But his uncle was in no mood to discuss his brother's self-destructive behavior. He turned and headed toward his own room.
And muttered under his breath, it's not my business to handle.
George climbed the stairs, his mind a desperate whirlwind.
He had called Shu Yao's number repeatedly. But The, line was off.
Why did he call me? Why did he hang up?
The damnable meeting had kept him from driving straight to Shu Yao's house. He tormented himself with possibilities: Shu Yao was still in trauma; he was scared; he needed comfort.
George slammed his room door shut, tearing off his watch and throwing his coat onto the leather armchair. He collapsed onto his vast, luxurious bed. The grandeur of the room, the glittering chandelier—it all felt useless.
He covered his beautiful green eyes with his hand, exhaling a ragged breath.
"If you ever move on, Shu Yao, it will be far greater," George thought, the secret vow a heavy burden. "I will treat you like a princess, if only you let me."
Meanwhile, Shu Yao was a machine powered by fear. He was working, working, ignoring the frantic screams of his body. He lost all track of time.
He felt the pen dragging across the paper, an unnecessary pain flaring in his wrist, his heart aching with the effort.
He had to finish. He had to warn George.
Bai Qi's car glided to a stop outside his villa. He stepped out, feeling impossibly light.
He went straight to his room. The first thing he did was shed his clothes and step into the shower. The hot spray washed away the grit of the day.
He could still feel the warmth of Ming Su's hug, and a spark of confused happiness ignited within him.
He was fine. In this haze of fragile relief, he completely forgot about the punishment he had inflicted, and the boy still laboring in the tower.
He emerged, dressed in silk sleepwear, and collapsed onto his massive bed.
"I didn't feel too much trouble,"
he murmured to the empty air.
He exhaled deeply, letting sleep finally take over.
But there, Shu Yao worked. He worked through the dead hours of the night, his mind a feverish blur of numbers and clauses.
Then, the dawn light spread, creeping in cold slivers across his desktop.
Shu Yao looked up. It was morning.
He still hadn't completed the task. He felt a wave of self-disgust. Useless. Too slow.
"It will be done," he whispered, licking his dry lips. "It's alright.
I can finish this."
He was running on fumes, too weak, starving, forcing his fragile, exhausted body beyond its limit. He needed to finish, and then, he needed to save Bai Qi from the elaborate, beautiful, terrifying trap that girl represented.
His pen moved, completing one last sentence, his mind repeating the desperate plea: I need to do it immediately.
The early morning sun, cold and bright, streamed into Shen Haoxuan's penthouse.
Shen stood by the mirror, watching his reflection with clinical detachment as Lu Zeyan approached from behind. The younger man's hands were already moving, precise and practiced, buttoning Shen's crisp white shirt.
"Let me do it, Ge," Lu Zeyan murmured, his breath warm on Shen's neck.
Shen watched the reflection of the focused, almost reverent look on Lu Zeyan's face.
"Do you remember," Shen asked, his voice flat, "the time when you couldn't even button my shirt?"
Lu Zeyan finished the final button near Shen's throat. He looked up, a familiar blush creeping onto his cheeks, those violet eyes wide with shyness. "Well, I—"
The Past
Lu Zeyan was barely nine years old, his violet eyes enormous and full of meek obedience.
He was Shen Haoxuan's step-brother—a child whose mother had made it explicitly clear that he was to exist only to serve and obey the eldest son.
One afternoon, Shen, who was already a cynical tyrant even as a child, summoned Lu Zeyan to his room. Lu Zeyan arrived instantly, scared of disturbing the older boy but more terrified of disobedience.
Shen sat on his bed, his shirt purposefully undone.
"You," Shen demanded, pointing a finger at his own chest. "I want you to button my shirt."
Lu Zeyan stood rigidly before him. He had never buttoned anyone's shirt before, not even his own; his mother always did it. He tried, his small fingers fumbling with the fine fabric and the tiny pearl buttons.
He failed. The buttons were misaligned, the shirt skewed.
"Is this how you button your brother's shirt?" Shen's voice was dangerously low.
Lu Zeyan looked up, guilt-stricken. "I never did that before—"
Smack.
The sound was sharp and deafening. Lu Zeyan fell to his knees, clutching his stinging cheek.
"You won't talk," Shen commanded, his face emotionless, "unless I say so."
Tears sprang into Lu Zeyan's large eyes, but he suppressed the sound. He knew better than to fight back.
The boundary had long since been crossed. What remained was humiliation, repeated until it felt ordinary.
That day, Shen placed a dented can on the table.
Dog food.
The sharp metallic scent filled the room.
Lu Zeyan stared at it, confusion flickering across his young face. He didn't understand why it was there—only that Shen had brought it.
Shen leaned back, eyes cold, voice deceptively calm.
"If you're really loyal to your gege," he said, tapping the can with one finger, "then prove it."
Lu Zeyan's fingers curled at his sides.
"Eat it."
The words landed like a command carved in stone.
Fear rose in Lu Zeyan's chest, thick and suffocating. His lips parted as if to speak—to ask why—but the sound never came. He had been taught not to question. Not to resist. Obedience had been pressed into his bones long before he learned how to protect himself.
His eyes glistened.
Slowly, trembling, he reached for the can.
Shen expected defiance. Tears. Begging. Even refusal.
He didn't expect compliance.
Lu Zeyan opened the can with shaking hands. The smell made his stomach churn. His throat tightened, but he didn't stop. He scooped a small amount, hesitated for one fragile second—then brought it to his mouth.
He swallowed.
Shen froze.
His pupils dilated, breath catching—not in pity, but in shock. He had wanted to scare him. To humiliate him. To assert control.
He hadn't expected Lu Zeyan to actually do it.
"Enough," Shen snapped abruptly, standing up. The chair scraped harshly against the floor.
Lu Zeyan looked up at him, eyes wide, silent, waiting for the next order.
That look—empty, obedient, terrified—made something twist unpleasantly in Shen's chest.
But he said nothing.
And Lu Zeyan, loyal to a fault, sat there believing he had done the right thing.
But Day after day, the abuse continued. Lu Zeyan never complained.
Then, one feverish day, Lu Zeyan was weak and shivering, his skin clammy. Shen summoned him again.
"I want you to grab that book for me," Shen instructed, pointing toward the colossal, tiered shelves in the library.
The required book was high up. Lu Zeyan, already dizzy from the fever, didn't disobey. He climbed the ladder one step, then two.
Shen watched, calculating. He knew the boy couldn't reach.
Then he sensed the fever-induced unsteadiness. And cursed under his breath.
You "absolute idiot" but he didn't finish.
Lu Zeyan missed the third step. He wobbled, pitching backward toward the hard marble floor.
In an instant, Shen moved. He surged forward, catching Lu Zeyan against his chest, absorbing the impact with his own body.
"You were sick," Shen's voice was rougher than intended. "Why didn't you tell me about it?"
Lu Zeyan didn't answer. He simply leaned into Shen's chest, weak and trembling.
"I am sorry, Gege," he whispered.
Shen felt a flicker of something he couldn't name—a sudden, sickening lurch in his stomach. He wanted to push the pathetic boy away, but he didn't. He held him, confused and unnerved by his own unexpected reaction.
Now back in present, Shen Haoxuan leaned back deliberately.
Too close.